


End Times

by Jessabell



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, End of the World, Ensemble Cast, F/F, F/M, M/M, Plotty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-09
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2020-02-29 04:26:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18771169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jessabell/pseuds/Jessabell
Summary: War. Death. Disease. Famine. The cycle is inescapable. Men create and then destroy. The sun rises to its zenith - his time is soon approaching.A Canon!AU set during X-men Apocalypse.





	1. Awakening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I finally got around to my Apocalypse fix-it fic and boy, I almost forgot all the issues I had with that movie.
> 
> This is basically just an introduction so sorry if it's a little dull - things will get more exciting soon!
> 
> (If you're wondering what's up with Erik, I wrote[ a little post-Future Past fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14709048) that's nominally an intro to this one. It's definitely not necessary to read before starting this one, but it might fill in some blanks.)

In the long silence, he dreams.

He dreams of war. Of blood staining the sand. Armoured beasts with long shadows marching tirelessly as the people cower in their wake. Great temples are built, others burned to ash. Civilizations are swept aside like chaff. More rise in their wake. Men squabble about goodness as others starve outside their walls. An army crashes against another. Fields are stained red. Murder. Betrayal.

He dreams of pestilence. Of mud and filth accumulating in the streets. Of blackened gums and swollen limbs. Of pits piled high with bodies no one living can bury. Families walled up in their houses in dread that the disease will spread. Throats cracked with screams unheard.

He dreams of paintings. Progress. Machines are born. They spread knowledge with the virulence of maladies. The humans argue about religion. More death. Pyres are built. A woman turns her gaze to the heavens as she is burnt alive.  People sail across the sea to flee persecution and find their promised land already claimed. They spread their civilization with the torch and the sword, leaving disease and famine in their wake.

Men kill each other with iron bellied weapons that shoot fire. They do not fight over land -- rather, they fight over ideals -- keener and more treacherous than any dagger. He dreams of machines as big as houses, birthing progress on the backs of the poor. A man is killed in front of a crowd of people. A single bullet flies to strike apart millions. A yellow cloud brings death upon the air. Bodies rot in trenches. The war to end all wars brings more upon its heels. A man spews hatred at a crowd that cheers. People are ripped from their homes with no reason given. Iron creatures take to the sky and spew fire in their wake. Buildings crumble. The ground grows black. A cloud taller than any building rises into the sky, scalds flesh from bone and poisons everything it touches. It sends shockwaves across the world. Men have harnessed the destructive power of the gods themselves.

Humans try to form peace from the ashes, but their hearts are deceitful. Walls are built. People divided. Chaos. Revolution. Change written in blood. Men learn that they are not alone amongst the sentient beings of this planet -- they react in terror. Another man is shot as he sits beside his wife. A nation mourns. A mother sends her son to die in a jungle she will never see. Fire scorches the land. War. Death. Disease. Famine. The cycle is inescapable. Men create and then destroy. A new enemy bands them together. Even this is not enough.

The sun rises to its zenith. His time is soon approaching.

He awakens.

 

* * *

 

"Hey!" Scott slams his locker door shut with a bang, fumbling with his books. "Kristie, wait up!"

A tall blonde stops in the middle of the hallway, the sea of people seeming to part around her. She smiles when she sees him jogging up to her which Scott can only take as a good sign. "Oh hey Scott, I didn't see you."

 _Story of my life,_ Scott thinks. "Uh, I was just wondering --" His carefully prepared speech seems to disintegrate before his eyes. "-- I mean, we should... well I was thinking maybe --"

Several of Kristie's friends start to giggle but she just stares at him politely. This is quite possibly one of the most excruciating moments of Scott's life. Even worse than that time when he was a freshman and he asked her to homecoming only to have her turn him down in front of the _entire_ school. "-- that we should work on that project Mister Weisman gave us," Scott finishes all in one breath. He feels like kicking himself. He's never been so eager to do a civics project in all his life.

"Oh!" Kristie lights up. "Yeah, sorry, I've been so busy I nearly forgot all about it."

"So... maybe tonight then?" Scott continues. Good job. It sounds casual. Smooth. Not at all desperate. "Your place or mine?" Wait. _No_. Not his place. The last thing he needs is his mother poking around, asking a whole bunch of embarrassing questions. Seriously, does _everyone_ know about his stupid crush? Everyone except for Kristie Kettleman herself, of course. "Probably yours," he adds, inwardly wincing. This is not going well.

"Sure," Kristie says, seemingly oblivious to how this is the most awkward conversation in the history of the universe. "I have cheer practice tonight but we can meet afterwards. How does five sound?"

"Great! Five sounds terrific!" He should probably tone down the enthusiasm. He swallows hard. "I’m just a few minutes away, after all." They’ve lived down the street from each other since they were toddlers, not that Kristie really acknowledges this fact at all, anymore.

Kristie laughs, flashing her impossibly white straight teeth. "Right!" She nods her head as an awkward silence stretches out between them.

 _Tell her she looks nice_ , a voice in Scott's head supplies. He takes a deep breath.

"Baby!" Kristie exclaims.

It takes a moment for reality to set in. Greg Hamilton shoves past him, wrapping an arm around Kristie's waist and kissing her in a way that really wasn't that appropriate for a school hallway. She doesn't seem to mind a bit though. Scott rapidly wishes the linoleum tile would open up and swallow him whole.

"Are you ready to go?" Kristie asks brightly, seemingly unaware that Scott is still standing there which is.... _super_ flattering. Really.

"One sec, babe. Meet me down by the car, I just gotta talk to old Scottie here for a second," Greg says, reaching out to squeeze Scott's shoulder in a gesture that might seem friendly if it wasn't for his vice-like grip.

Oh, s _hit._ That's not good.

"Sure thing," Kristie replies, “love you." She leans forward and kisses Greg once more. "Bye Scott," she adds, with a toss of her blonde ponytail before heading down the hall.

As soon as she disappears around the corner, Greg grabs Scott by the front of his jacket and shoves him against the nearest locker. Scott feels his teeth rattle. "Look loser," Greg practically spits the words into Scott's face. Ew, gross. "I don't know what game you think you're playing but _stay away from my girl_."

"Wow man, I didn't realize your ownership papers came through," Scott says dryly, which is a huge mistake because Greg has about five inches and a hundred pounds on Scott (he's still waiting on that growth spurt) and has been dunking Scott's head in a toilet since they were eight... honestly, a bit repetitive by this point, but it definitely still got his point across. This time, Greg settles for smacking Scott's face off the metal locker. His ears ring. "Ow -- _Christ._  Fine," Scott says through gritted teeth. "What am I supposed to do? We have a presentation together."

" _We_ _have a presentation_ ," Greg parrots in a high-pitched voice that sounds nothing like Scott (seriously, is he even trying?)  The muscled goons behind him both laugh. "That sounds like your problem, not mine. If I catch you even looking at her in a way that I don't like, I'm gonna make you regret it, Summers. That clear enough for you?"

Scott apparently doesn't reply fast enough for Greg, who bangs him off the locker again for good measure. He's pretty sure his bruises are getting bruises by this point. " _Crystal_ ," Scott grits out. Greg releases his stranglehold on Scott's jacket with a grin.

Scott leans against the locker and gasps for air as Greg and his two gorillas shoulder their way out of the crowd. Everyone stares at Scott for a moment. Not a single person asks if he's okay. They just smile and prod their friends before walking off. He should be used to it, but still, Scott feels his face burn red with humiliation and barely suppressed rage. He feels a sudden twinge behind his eyes and then, out of nowhere, the worst headache he's ever had in his life hits him -- like red hot pokers behind his eyelids, like the school marching band banging every cymbal and drum they own in unison. Greg must have hit him harder than usual this time. He pinches the bridge of his nose, blinking away the moisture that threatens in the corners of his eyes like the worst sort of traitor and considers heading to the nurse's office -- not that he'll be able to explain what happened in detail, and oh god, he hopes they don't decide to call his mom. He takes a steadying breath, rubbing at his eyes with the back of his hand and just as suddenly as it arrived, the pain dissipates, leaving only a dull ache in its wake.

 _Well, this day just keeps getting better and better_ , Scott thinks, bending over to pick up his books from the floor as behind him, the bell rings.

 

* * *

 

Kurt winces, pressing a damp cloth against his ribcage. When he pulls away, it's stained black with his blood. He'd hesitated. They had told him not to. He must put on a good show. They said it's not true fighting, but still, the blood and the pain seemed real enough to him. (He'll do better next time).

The steel door to the room creaks open and Kurt tenses automatically. No one usually bothers him after his fights -- the other mutants dismiss him but Kurt can see that they are also afraid and Meister will be busy long into the night. Customers sometimes want a closer look but they always have to pay for the privilege. He must have done something wrong. A woman enters. She has long blonde hair and a pretty face, with pink cheeks and full lips that curl into a smile when she looks at him. Kurt isn't used to that. Normal people are not usually happy to see him. "Don't be scared," she says in English. She has an American accent. Kurt is surprised by this -- you don't see many Americans in East Berlin. "I'm not here to hurt you."

"You shouldn't be down here," Kurt responds warily. She seems kind, but so have many other people.

"You'll find I'm not very good at following the rules," the woman tells him with a sly smile. She steps forward, leaning against the edge of the table, a little too close to Kurt to be comfortable. Her blue eyes flicker to the wound at his side. "That was quite the fight," she says, "you okay?"

"Yes," Kurt lies. "I'm glad you enjoyed it."

"I didn't say that." The woman frowns. "Do you like it here?"

No one has ever asked Kurt that before. He doesn't even need to think about his answer. "No," he says. This was even worse than the circus. There people only gawked or whispered. Here they cheered when they saw blood. Loved him when he hurt people. In the circus, he was just another freak. In Berlin, he is a freak with a _purpose._

"I've seen your gift," she tells him. It's strange, the way she says it. Like it's something he should be proud of. Perhaps it is just Kurt's poor English. "You could go anywhere you wanted. There's nothing keeping you here," she gestures at the small bunker room with a shrug.

"I promised." He hisses as he pulls the rag away. The cut is deeper than he thought. "I fight for him and he helps me."

"Helps you with what?" the woman asks. Her eyes drop to his side and she shakes her head. "Let me do that." She brushes him aside without waiting for an answer,  gathering up a bandage and wrapping it around his ribcage. Her hands are very gentle and soft.

"My family," Kurt says at last. He's not sure why he's telling her this, but... no one usually asks about him. He had friends once, in the circus, but now -- he's tired of being lonely. "He knows everyone in Berlin. He says he can help me find them."

The woman stiffens momentarily before slowly, carefully tying off the bandage and tucking down the ends. She puts a hand on his shoulder as she stands, staring at the marks carved into his skin. She looks sad. Kurt feels responsible. He had not wanted to make her sad. "And if he's lying?" she asks.

"He's not." Kurt is certain of this. He’s been good -- he hasn't done anything to make Meister hate him. There's no reason for him to lie. "He's helped other mutants before. Sent them to Caliban. Brought them to the West. He'll help me too as long as I keep winning."

The woman pauses, taking in the damp, dirty room, the rusted pipes rattling overhead, and the rumpled cot Kurt sat on. His ears droop. He feels a little foolish. Like most Americans, she was very glamorous in her black leather jacket and boots and he realized that perhaps his life reflected poorly on him. Maybe she thought because he did wrong things, that he was bad. "Do you remember them?" She looks at him with a strange intensity, her eyes flashing in the dim light. "Your parents?"

Kurt asks himself that question most nights. At the circus, they had told him that his mother took one look at the devil she had birthed and fled. But still, there are flickers, a kind voice, something soft and warm. Lately, he's begun to wonder whether that is more dreams than fact. A wish he very much wants to be truth. "My mother," he tells her at last, clasping his hands together in front of him. "She did not want to leave me." It's a comforting thought that at least one person in this world could look at him and see beneath the blue skin to the heart of who he was.

The woman gives him a quiet, mournful smile. "I'm sure she didn't,"  she assures him softly, applying gentle pressure to his shoulder. "I'd like to see you again, okay?"

Kurt nods. "Okay," he replies. Meister would not be happy but Kurt did not meet many nice people. Maybe she will even want to be his friend. He doesn't have any friends in Berlin. "Who are you?" Friends _should_ know each other's names, to start.

The woman pauses in the doorway, her blonde hair falling around her shoulders in waves. "Call me Raven."

" _Auf wiedersehen,_  Raven." Kurt smiles as the door creaks shut, locking away the vast world he has never seen and knows, instinctively, does not welcome him.

 

* * *

 

Erik has always been a morning person -- first by necessity and now through design. He likes the quiet after the sun first rises, all the more precious now that Erik knows his privacy is finite. He's already gone for his early run and is well into his second mug of coffee by the time Charles presents himself in the kitchen with a yawn. "Morning," Erik greets, a thread of dark amusement in his voice. He stands up without having to be asked and makes Charles' coffee with the practised ease of routine. "Late night?" It's a question that does not require a response. By Erik's watch, Charles had not stumbled into bed until three or four in the morning. While Erik is fully prepared to give him an all too familiar lecture about learning his boundaries, he has long since learned it is futile preaching to Charles before he's had his morning coffee.

"Mm," Charles hums, carefully removing his mug from Erik's grasp. He takes a sip. "Wonderful," he breathes, leaning back into his chair with artless pleasure. "It's like you read my mind."

"I believe that's your talent, Charles," Erik says with an arch of his brow. He settles into his seat, taking the Sunday paper and passing the Art and Science sections over to Charles before opening to the front page. "Looks like Hank is doing well," Erik observes, gesturing to an article about recent polling numbers.

"Yes, I'm hesitantly optimistic," Charles responds without looking up from the article he's reading. "It will be a step forward. A mutant in the Senate."

"A token," Erik warns. "A pretence of tolerance while the humans still demand regulation and control behind closed doors."

Charles flashes him a lopsided smile. "But better than nothing," he reminds. "Who knows," Charles adds, an idea sparking behind his boyish blue eyes. "Maybe there will be a mutant president someday."

"I wouldn't hold my breath," Erik responds dryly, turning the page. More politics. A bombing in Beirut. A magnitude 5 earthquake in Cairo. He checks his watch as he takes another sip of coffee. Half an hour until the children will be up. He should get Charles to eat something before then. He nearly tosses the paper aside before something catches his eye. It's a throwaway article, buried beneath a puff piece on the Star Wars initiative. A face he recognizes stares up from the ink, the black tattoo over his eye little more than a dark smear on the page. The headline reads: _Trial Date Set for Mutant Duo Charged in Mass Homicide and Robbery._  The words hit him like a slap in the face: it's been years since he thought about the Brotherhood, and that in itself is sickening because he lit this fire -- why did he possibly think it would stop burning without him? He scans the article, feeling angrier by the minute. The details are sparse but Erik can see the full picture regardless -- they had tried to rob the Philadelphia National Bank (a stupid mistake) and when things went sour, they panicked. They took hostages and when the SWAT team invaded the building, the robbers opened fire. Seven of the hostages and one police officer were killed. Something doesn’t sit right with Erik -- the Brotherhood he began had wanted freedom, not anarchy -- but he has no idea what sort of creature it has become in his absence. "Have you seen this?" he asks, passing the article to Charles.

Charles frowns, scanning the page. Erik can feel the brush of Charles' inquisitive mind against his own and quickly shoves it aside. He isn’t in the mood for Charles’ own particular brand of introspection. Not that he can ever successfully keep Charles out -- without his helmet, his barriers are flimsy at best, and it is only Charles' flexible moral code that keeps him from too great a trespass. "You knew them," Charles observes, at last, a little too gently.The sympathy in his voice is not pity, exactly, it's just the way Charles is, but still, it stings regardless of intention. "...It's not your fault."

"If not mine than whose?" Erik isn't looking for _forgiveness._ Charles of all people should understand that. "I set them on this path and then I abandoned them."

"Maybe Hank can help somehow..." Charles begins because _of course,_ his first instinct is to try and somehow fix this. Erik is often baffled by how such a clever man can be so stupid at times.

”How? By pleading for clemency?" Erik asks. "And then what? Not everyone has the luxury of hiding, Charles," Erik responds through clenched teeth. Ink could maybe pass for human in the right light, but the other one -- Toad? -- was doomed from the start. "You read the same thing I did. The humans are going to make an example of them. They're talking about a top security mutant _prison_." Charles doesn't quite meet his eyes. Erik may not be able to read minds, but he can damned well tell what _that_ look means. "You _knew_."

"I knew it was a possibility," Charles explains. "I didn't realize they had already begun construction."

"And when were you going to tell me?"  There is a steely edge to Erik’s voice that seems to slice through the morning air like a knife-point.

"When I could trust you to digest the information without flying off the handle," Charles snaps. "I don't mean to lie to you Erik, but we need to manage this situation calmly and rationally, otherwise --"

"What, Charles?" Erik asks, barely disguised anger curled like a warning in his words. "You forget, I lived in a country where my people were considered second-class citizens -- where we were corralled and branded like cattle -- and the world simply looked on with indifference."

 _That_ stops Charles in his tracks. His expression twists. "Believe me, my friend, I understand what's at stake here." His voice is soft and measured, as though he's speaking to an unruly student. "But violence isn't always the answer." He gazes at Erik as though he's pleading with him to understand. Look at them, twenty years and they're still having the same old argument, their feet planted firmly on each side, too stubborn to budge.

"Sometimes," Erik tells him, "it's the only answer we have."

 

* * *

 

On clear days, Warren can see as far as the Hudson River through the little window in his bedroom. He stares it and imagines a cool breeze whispering across his skin, the squawking of gulls overhead. He invents lives for the people on the street below, husbands and wives, children with their parents, safe and secure in their normalcy. It was hard to believe that he was one of them once -- an ordinary person with ordinary problems -- before everything changed.

Warren sets down his book,  _the Invisible Man,_ as his father enters. He knows what today is, his bag was packed this morning and he stands up awkwardly from the window seat. "Are you ready?" his father asks with a frown and Warren nods. It's the only answer he wants to hear. There's the illusion of choice, but in the end, Warren was set down this path the moment his father first saw him, huddled in the bathroom trying to hack off the feathers that had sprouted from his back.

They take the side entrance -- it wouldn't do for anyone to see him, not when they've been so careful up till now. Warren slips into the back of his father's black Mercedes Benz, trying to tuck his wings away as carefully as possible, but still, it's claustrophobic at best. The doctor had suggested an ambulance, but his father preferred to avoid the inevitable questions that would arise. Better the neighbours just think his son's a shut-in then learn the horrifying truth.

The private clinic looks more like a spa than a hospital but Warren guesses that's probably the point. They pull around the clean angular front with its wide windows and fountains to the delivery gate, where they are greeted by orderlies in neat white uniforms. They look Warren up and down but refrain from commenting as they lead him and his father into a brightly lit room.

Doctor Rao walks in, the heels of her smart black shoes clicking against the floor. "Ah, right on time," she says with a practised smile. "Lovely to see you again, Warren." She takes his father's hand and shakes it vigorously. "We're going to have to do some tests before we operate. Want to make sure everything is as it should be. Would you like to say goodbye here?"

Warren turns to his father feeling suddenly, irrationally, afraid. He doesn't want him to go, but Warren knows if he asks, his father will be ashamed of him. So instead he simply stands there as his father reaches out and hugs him tightly, carefully avoiding touching the wings which flutter against his son's back. "You're doing the right thing," his father tells him. "I'm proud of you."

He's wanted his father to say that for a long time... but not like this. Warren swallows back his tears, nodding his head. He's afraid if he opens his mouth, he'll do something to ruin it.

Doctor Rao walks up and puts a hand on his shoulder as if to steady him. "Come now, in a few days, you'll be as good as new." She gently leads him toward the doorway of the room. Warren's feet seem to move of their own volition. "You can go to school. Make friends. Be just like everyone else."

 _Like everyone else,_  Warren thinks. How nice that will be -- to come and go as he pleases, to meet new people, to have his father look at him without guilt in his eyes. He glances over his shoulder, hoping for a final reassuring smile, but his father has already turned away.

 _I'm doing the right thing,_  Warren tells himself. If he repeats it like a mantra, maybe one day it will be true.

 

* * *

 

She is surrounded by darkness. It is not simply an absence of light, but as though no such thing as light had ever existed in a place like this. A great yawning emptiness that engulfs everything it touches. She is weightless, suspended in place, and this nothingness is all around her. She can't feel anything, not even her own body. She opens her mouth to scream, but no noise comes out. Or maybe she does scream, but the void simply swallows it whole. The blackness slips down her open throat, pools into her lungs, filling her from the inside out. She knows, instinctively, that soon she will become the darkness too. Hollow, like an unfilled glass and feeling _nothing_ at all.

 _Jean_ , a voice echoes in her ears. She thrashes, trying to find the source, but there's no use.

 _Help me_ , Jean thinks, pleadingly.

A single, golden light appears before her eyes, bright enough to blind her. _Jean_ , the light says. It shimmers and for a moment Jean sees the silhouette of a woman with eyes that glow like stars. _Wake up._

Jean opens her eyes with a gasp. "You're alright," a kindly voice beside her says. "It was just a nightmare."

She blinks, vision adjusting to the half-light of her bedroom. "Professor?" He's sitting in his wheelchair beside her bed, his hand hovering just above her brow, which is damp with perspiration. Now that her panic is wearing off, Jean can feel the impending humiliation. When she was a child, her nightmares would sometimes make her whole bedroom shake. But it hasn't happened in a long time. Jean thought her control was getting better. "Did I wake you?"

"You were projecting. Rather loudly, I'm afraid," the Professor responds, not unkindly.

Jean frowns and sits up, folding her legs against her chest beneath the covers. "I'm sorry." The contents of her dream are already slipping away from her, like strings of gossamer silk that at the slightest pressure will disintegrate entirely.

"You have nothing to apologize for." If Jean was a different person, she would think that this is just a platitude to comfort her,  but she can read minds. While the Professor's shields are too well-constructed to let anything more than a vague impression through, Jean can't sense any annoyance, just concern. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"No," Jean shakes her head. "I -- it's stupid." She hugs her knees closer to her chest and is reminded of a time when she was a child -- some kids had locked her in a basement as a joke, knowing she was scared of the dark, and Jean had torn the entire room to pieces with her mind. Those kids had never bothered her again. "Do you ever wish you were just... ordinary?" Jean has been at the mansion long enough to know this is the kind of question she shouldn't be asking. The first unspoken rule was always be proud of who you are; that your gifts are what make you special. Unique. But most of the time, Jean doesn't feel special -- more like a ticking time bomb just waiting to go off.

"Frequently," the Professors responds with a smile. Jean looks up -- that hadn't been the answer she was expecting. "I know what it's like, to have people afraid of what you can do. You start to convince yourself that maybe their fear is justified." He stares at her contemplatively and Jean finds it very difficult to meet his gaze. "No one can tell you who you are -- that's a journey each of us must walk alone. But Jean, there's so much _promise_ in you. You're kind, compassionate and dedicated. One day you'll learn that these qualities define you just as much as your powers do."

Jean feels her cheeks grow warm. She's never been very good at receiving praise and deep down, she doubts the Professor's glowing assessment of her attributes. She doesn't say anything, plucking absently at her blanket. "I'll let you get some sleep," the Professor tells her, taking pity on her discomfort.

"Professor?" Jean looks up. He pauses in the doorway, tilting his head quizzically. "Thank you." It's hard to think about her life before the mansion -- sometimes, it feels like the only home she's ever had. But she does remember how it felt to be alone. She's glad that she'll never have to feel like that again.

"You're quite welcome."

 

* * *

 

Scott shifts uncomfortably in his brand new jacket, leather creaking as he runs a hand through his hair. "You got this, man," he tells his reflection. It stares back at him, looking as uncertain as he feels, despite his affirmations. He sighs, snatching his backpack off the floor as he heads for the door.

It's ridiculous, Scott thinks, walking up the length of his quiet suburban street. Who the hell does Greg think he is? It's a free country. He can do whatever he wants. He's known Kristie since they were kids, for god's sake. Just because she's dating that asshole doesn't mean he gets to dictate their entire lives. There's no reason for Scott to feel like he's on his final death march. (What Greg doesn't know won't hurt him. Hopefully.)

Kristie Kettleman's house is in sight when Scott hears the purr of an engine behind him. He glances over his shoulder, heart stopping in his chest when he sees Greg's shiny new Buick Riviera pulling up the street. Kristie is sitting in the front seat, still in her cheer costume, hair blowing in the breeze and fixing her lipstick in the passenger side mirror. She looks up just as Scott is about to turn around and skulk as quickly as he can in the other direction. "Hey Scott!" she shouts, waving at him. Jesus Christ, he just can't catch a _fucking break_ today.

Greg's face darkens with sudden realization. Scott, acting on pure instinct, turns and bolts as fast as he can up the street. "You better run, asshole!" Greg shouts after him.

For a second, all he can hear is the pounding of his sneakers against the pavement and the squeal of tires. All he needs to do is make it to his front door and he's golden (at least, until Monday rolls around). But who is he kidding?  Scott nearly runs smack into the gleaming red hood as Greg's car jumps the curb and pulls across the middle of the sidewalk. "Are you fucking deaf, Summers?" Greg asks, vaulting over the driver's side door and advancing on Scott. "I told you: _stay. Away. From. My. Girl_."

"Look --" Scott begins because when all else fails, talk your way out of it. But Greg isn't really in the mood for conversation. He punches Scott across the face, knocking him down. His backpack comes undone, books and papers spilling across the grass.

"Greg stop!" Kristie shouts shrilly, standing up in the passenger seat.

"You think I don't see you staring at her like some creepy little stalker?" Greg asks, kicking Scott in the stomach hard. He curls into a ball, feeling sick. "She's too nice to say it to your face because she feels sorry for you. But let’s face it, everyone’s laughing at how pathetic you are." He takes a step back, winding up to kick Scott again. He's had the worst of Greg's temper tantrums before, but this is different. This feels... dangerous. Like something's snapped.  "You're just always around. Trailing after her like some little puppy-dog." Greg leans down, grabbing Scott by the hair. "Get this through your thick skull: it's _never going to happen._ "

He groans, looking up at Kristie and sees the truth of Greg's words in her stricken expression. She doesn’t even try to deny it. Greg scoffs, tossing Scott aside. He lands heavily on the grass, ears ringing. Greg laughs behind him. "Wow, you really are a freak, Summers. Just like your stupid brother."

Scott sees red. He's never understood that expression until now. The world comes into sharp focus as he stares at his discarded textbook laying on the lawn. The headache is back, worse than ever, a pounding rhythm that makes his teeth clench. Smoke begins to rise from the cover, a black hole like a cigarette burn boring through the pages. He struggles to his feet, hands clenched tightly at his sides.

"What's wrong Scottie? Gonna _cry_ ?" Greg taunts. Scott turns around, unsure what he's going to do but knowing that he has to do _something._

He looks at Greg.

Red beams shoot from his eyes. Greg throws himself to the ground just in time, but they rake through the side of his new car, metal groaning as it warps and melts beneath Scott's gaze. He slices through the middle of the Buick like butter. Through his shock, Scott can't help but feel a certain glint of satisfaction. Kristie screams as the two halves of the car groan and collapse into each other. "What the fuck!?" Greg shouts from where he’s lying face down on the ground.

 _Stop_ , Scott thinks. But it's no use. The lasers burn through the neighbour's hedgerow, slicing a nearby streetlight in half. Kristie shields her head in her hands. She won't stop screaming. Neighbours burst out of their front doors in a panic.

"Scott!" That's his father's voice. Scott spins around. His father falls to the ground just in time as Scott burns a hole through their family's Volkswagen, parked in the driveway. Now he's really starting to panic. He squeezes his eyes shut, crouching down on the grass and grabbing his throbbing head with his hands. _Stop, stop, stop._

"The cops are on their way!" a woman shouts.

Scott feels his father's hands, warm and solid on his shoulders. He doesn't dare open his eyes. "It's okay, Scott. It's okay," he says.

"I'm sorry," Scott finds himself saying, hot tears clinging to his eyelashes. "I'm so sorry." He's going to be in so much shit for this. Grounding won't even begin to cover it.

"I'm going to stand you up, alright?" His father takes him gently by the elbow, helping him to his feet. "I won't let anything happen to you, son. I swear."

"Dad?" Scott asks, ashamed to hear the crack of emotion in his voice. He takes step after agonizing step toward their house. Even with his eyes closed, he can feel the electric current of fear in the air. The way the crowd of people flinches away from them as soon as they draw near. "What's happening to me?"

"I don't know." Scott can hear the panic on the edge of his father's voice, no matter how fervently he tries to hide it. "But I think I know who will."


	2. Famine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are happening! Apologies in advance for my rubbish Arabic - but hey, at least no one threatens to cut off anyone's hand? (Nearly walked out of the theatre at that one.)
> 
> Trying to get this story at least into first gear before my holiday is over and RL kicks back in.

He is surrounded by stone. A tomb that was not meant to be his own. Blood is pushed through his weakened limbs by the sluggish beating of his heart. He can hear the chanting of men echoing from the cavern above him, repeating words whose meaning they cannot possibly comprehend. He reaches out -- not with his stiff and useless fingers -- but with his mind. The rock shudders around him in trembling resistance. It is not enough.

The tomb explodes outward, burying his worshipers in a shower of rubble. Their screams as they die are as fleeting and beautiful as the calls of the river herons on the Nile. For the first time in millennia, his lips curve into a smile.

The sun greets him with the familiarity of a lover as he mounts the stone steps of his prison and out into the land above. The humans that remain fall down in supplication at his approach, touching their foreheads to the burning sand. "Oh Eternal One," a man says, stretching his palms outward. "We are your loyal servants. For many centuries we have laboured to return you to wakefulness. I beg you, shower us with your blessings."

Eternal. His life stretched outward in front of him, the years waxing and waning like the morning light. His eyes slip closed. The sounds of a nearby city wash over him, the heat, the sand, the noise of the market, the smell of spice in the air. This he knows. Beyond: machines belch acrid smoke, people stare at screens empty of meaning --  an anthill of activity, each life struggling, striving with no purpose beyond their own survival. He knows this place -- it is alien and familiar all at once. A magnetic contradiction.

“Yes." The word is hissed through cracked lips, his throat raw with the effort. He raises his hand. "In reward, I grant you the gift -- " The mortals around him do not have the time to scream, their bodies collapsing into grains of sand, swept away by the breeze. "-- Of a quick death."

He strides forward, out into the desert, toward the waiting city beyond. It is time for him to remember.

 

* * *

 

She really hates Berlin.

As cities go, it’s okay, but two world wars and one big stupid wall haven’t exactly made it a prime holiday destination. The entire place has the air of a divorced couple still living in the same house. West Berlin watches American movies, plays rock music and covers their problems with spray paint, but in the end, the whole thing just feels cheap. East Berlin, on the other hand, was a legitimate shit show -- a bunch of gasoline just waiting for a match. She can only hope she’ll have gotten the hell away before someone decides to light one.

She pushes her way through the crowd. The metal cage rises above their heads like an offering to some violent god. People shout and cheer while men armed with Kalashnikovs stand with blank faces and sharp eyes amongst the throng.

" _Meine Damen und Herren,_ " the announcer begins, "for our first entertainment of the evening, may I present: he is big, he is strong, he is _fat._ He is the Blob!" In the far corner of the cage, the mutant yells and throws his hands in the air, inciting the cheers of the crowd. "And facing him is a fan favourite, our very own Berlin devil, Nightcrawler!" The light swings over to the far side where Kurt is standing, his red eyes scanning the crowd with uncertainty. He gives a little wave. The man standing beside Mystique laughs. She feels an irrational urge to start punching people.

The Blob rushes at Kurt without warning. His eyes widen before he disappears in a puff of smoke, landing on the crossbeam above them. The crowd lets out a collective boo. Kurt crouches, tail whipping behind him, unsure of what to do next. The Blob picks up a rusty iron bar left discarded on the bottom of the cage and whips it toward him with unnatural strength. Kurt vanishes and the bar smashes into the side of the electrified cage, showering sparks down on the mutants below. Around Mystique, people cheer. She narrows her eyes. She had a plan but... screw it. This show's gone on long enough.

"Looks like the little demon is afraid!" Blob shouts. "Fight me! Or they will kill us both!"

Kurt flickers into view just behind Blob, wrapping his tail around the man's throat. The other mutant simply laughs, grabbing at Kurt and tossing him into the side of the cage. The scent of burnt skin fills the air. "Sorry mutants!" The announcer calls above them with a giggle. " _Vorsicht_. High voltage!"

Mystique makes her way toward the rusted control panel. A guard with a head like an oversized brick stops her in her tracks. "Lost your way, little mouse?" he leers. "The fight is that way."

She glances over her shoulder. Blob holds Kurt above his head and throws him across the cage. This time Kurt teleports before he lands, appearing in front of the other mutant and lashing out with his tail, cutting him across the chest. "Sorry!" Kurt says reflexively. The crowd gives an appreciative roar.

"It looks like it's about to get very exciting," the guard adds with a smirk.

"Really?" Mystique asks, tilting her head. Playing the dumb blonde always works like a charm with meatheads. She runs her hand across his chest. "You mean like this?" He looks down at her appreciatively just in time to catch her elbow across his face, knocking him out cold. Too easy. She steps over his body, grinding her heel into his hand for good measure, and flips every switch she can see. Hell, she figures this should make some noise. The dials all tremble, flickering into the red.

"Night! Crawler! Night! Crawler!" The audience shouts. Kurt wraps his arms around the Blob, teleporting high above the ground before dropping him. The other mutant hits the concrete hard enough to make the entire room shake. Sparks fly from the cage as it short circuits. Around them, alarms start to ring. Men frantically grab at their guns. Kurt looks apprehensively at the fence before flicking out, reappearing in the middle of the crowd. Around him, people scream and scatter. Blob struggles to his feet, bleeding heavily, and rips the chain link surrounding in two.

Mystique hurries to Kurt's side, punching a guard in the head and kicking his gun out of reach. She grabs the kid by the elbow. "I told you I'd see you again," she says with a grin.

"Raven?" He looks surprised to see her. Well, she can’t blame him, given the circumstances.

"C'mon," she tugs at his arm. There's chaos now, but it won't last long. Behind them, there's a rapid burst of gunfire. The remaining humans scream. Blob grabs a guard around the middle and throws him against the wall with a sickening crunch. "We've gotta go. Now."

"I'm glad you came back," Kurt tells her with a serene smile. This throws Mystique off-balance. When she first saw that he was still alive… well, she wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting, but this definitely wasn’t it. She presses her lips together — she’ll deal with that guilt later, preferably when they’re not in imminent danger of being shot. Kurt stops in his tracks, gazing around the club like he's looking for something. "Wait --" he says, pulling out of her grasp. Before she can say anything, he disappears, leaving nothing but a puff of blue smoke hanging in the air.

" _Goddamnit_ Kurt!"  Mystique swears elaborately beneath her breath. Luckily, German is a pretty good language for cursing and she feels better by the time she’s finished. She grabs a gun from a nearby unconscious guard, shifting her skin. She came a long, long way to find him. She's not about to give up now.

She squares her shoulders before wading into the fray.

 

* * *

 

How long has it been since he was back here? Eight years? Nine? Alex finds he has difficulty remembering as he drives past the rows of cookie-cutter houses with their perfectly manicured lawns and two car garages. A predetermined idea of domesticity that Alex has always found grating. It’s a visceral reminder of where he'll never belong. He's frowning by the time he pulls into the driveway. A brown Volkswagen is already parked beside him, a gaping hole melted through the door. Alex stoops down, glancing through it, and sees the neighbour's smouldering hedgerow on the other side. He smiles.

Kathy opens the front door a few seconds after he knocks. She's wearing a bright pink sweater with her hair curled, but she looks less put together than usual. Alex can see her mascara is smudged where she's been crying. Still, she smiles when she sees him, getting on her toes to pull him into a hug. "Thanks for coming," she tells him.

"Sure thing," Alex responds with a shrug, shoving his hands in his pockets. "How is he?"

"Scared." Kathy has never been one to mince her words. Alex has always appreciated that. "Confused. Sullen as hell. What you’d expect." He's always liked her, despite having plenty of reasons not to. "Can I get you anything? A glass of water maybe?"

"Yeah, thanks," Alex says. He understands -- probably better than anyone else. He'd been so  _angry_ when his powers came. If the Professor hadn't found him, well... who knows where he would've ended up.

"Alex," his dad walks into the kitchen as Kathy fetches a glass and switches on the tap. He hesitates, trying to decide how to greet him before awkwardly holding out his hand. Alex shakes it. “How have things been?"

Alex shrugs his shoulders. "Oh y'know," he says. But they probably don't. "The usual." He hasn't been sleeping much and it probably shows. Ten years since Vietnam and he still wears it like a weight around his neck. Some days it feels set to drown him while on others, he barely notices it at all.

"Are you still working at that school? The one run by that man, what's his name, in the wheelchair," his father is doing his best to keep the judgement from of his voice. Alex appreciates the effort, even if he's not entirely successful.

"Xavier's?" Alex asks, raising an eyebrow. "Yeah."

He shifts beneath the sudden silence. Kathy hands him water in a patterned glass. "Scott's upstairs in his room," she tells him kindly.

Alex takes that as his cue to leave. He's heading to the stairs when his father suddenly grabs him by the arm. "I'm sorry, Alex," his dad says, shaking his head. "I know I've made mistakes."

"Whatever," Alex responds with a shrug. He and his father never had much of a relationship to speak of and these were old wounds. There isn't a point trying to patch them over now. "Just do better for _him_."

Despite the length of time that has passed since Alex last stayed here, he finds that not much has changed. Scott's bedroom, at the end of the hallway, still has a 'keep out' sign plastered on the front. Alex still ignores it. He knocks once before stepping inside. It's oppressively dark. The curtains have been pulled shut and no one's bothered to switch on a light. It takes Alex a moment for his eyes to adjust before he sees Scott's body huddled on the surface of his bed, face turned to the wall. "Hey," Alex says.

Scott tenses at the sound but otherwise remains motionless. Last time Alex had seen him, he'd been seven or eight and practically bouncing off the walls. Now he's all grown up. "Figures they'd call you," Scott tells the empty air. "Get the freak to handle his freak brother."

Alex shrugs. "Something like that," he admits. He moves to sit on the edge of Scott's bed. "I hear you totalled Hamilton's new car." He grins. "If the son is anything like the father, he totally had it coming."

He manages to get a laugh out of Scott with that. "Yeah," Scott agrees, "he's a real asshole." His shoulders slump with sudden realization. "You're gonna take me away, aren't you?"

"It's up to you," Alex tells him, hearing the Professor's voice echoing in his ears. _("We're here to give you a choice,"_ Xavier had told him as he sat on his bunk in a dirty cell, staring down the stretch of five years in juvie and taking a certain malicious pleasure in it because: _fuck them, fuck everyone_ .) It feels like a lifetime ago. "I'm not going to _make_ you do anything. But there are people who can help you, Scott. Only makes sense to let them."

"Help how?" Scott rolls over so Alex can see his face, which is twisted in grief and confusion. He has a strip of bandage tied over his eyes, which Alex can see from the furrows in his brow, are still squeezed tightly shut beneath. "Dad said you can’t cure it. I’m always going to be this --" he waves a hand dismissively at his eyes “-- _thing_.”

"But you can learn to control it," Alex suggests. "It's not the end of the world, Scott. I know part of being a teenager is the whole 'nobody understands me' gig. But I actually do know what you're going through so maybe you should take my advice."

"Why!?" Scott sits up suddenly, his hands fisting in the bedclothes. "You were never around and when you were you were practically comatose -- now you just wanna show up and act like you're my brother all of a sudden!? _Fuck_ you!" Alex sits there, calm in the face of Scott's rage. Seeing his brother like this, it's like looking in a mirror.  "Don't you get it!? _I could've killed someone!_ "

"But you didn't," Alex points out gently.

"Not for lack of trying," Scott grumbles, fire burning itself out as quickly as it had begun. He crosses his arms over his chest protectively. Alex is suddenly reminded of the kid he first met, gazing up at him in the hallway like he was a stranger.

"Look," Alex says, reaching out to hesitantly put a hand on Scott's shoulder. His brother doesn't even seem to notice. "The school it's -- it's not what you think. It's nice there. You'll like it. And I'll be with you every step of the way." He'd tried to go it alone. It hadn't worked out so well. Alex has never really known how to be a good brother and he'd comforted himself for too long with the thought that Scott didn't need someone like him in his life. But now, well, maybe their father isn't the only person in this house who needs to try harder. "If you want me to be."

Alex isn't sure what reaction he was expecting, but when Scott reaches out and hugs him fiercely, he's pretty sure it wasn't this. For a moment he doesn't know what to do with his hands. There's a certain dampness on Alex's shoulder that suggests Scott might be crying, but Alex, magnanimously, pretends he doesn't notice. He pats his brother comfortingly on the back a few times. Scott takes a deep, shuddering breath then, just as quickly as it happened, he lets go. "Okay," Scott says, at last, scrubbing his face with his sleeve.

"Okay." His whole life, the only person Alex ever had to worry about is himself. It was easier that way and the walls he built not only kept him safe but more importantly, protected the rest of the world from him. He's not as different from that angry kid Charles and Erik first found as everybody seems to think -- he just does a better job at hiding it. But Scott needs somebody in his corner and while Alex isn't sure he trusts himself to be responsible for another person, he figures he doesn't have much of a choice -- like rotting in prison or trusting the two weirdos who for some unknown reason decided to give him a second chance.

 

* * *

 

Kurt finds Meister in the back room, crouched in front of his safe. He's shovelling the dirty wads of bills into a leather bag as quickly as he can manage, cursing beneath his breath as a familiar _rat-tat-tat_ of gunfire sounds out front. He falls back against the safe as Kurt teleports beside him. " _Mist!_ " he swears, holding his hand over his chest. "What is wrong with you!? You scared the shit out of me."

"I am leaving," Kurt tells him. "But we had a deal. I fought for you. Now tell me where my parents are."

Meister furrows his brow. " _Dummkopf_ ," he says beneath his breath. "The Stasi will be here any minute. There are  _dead_ people out there. I won't be able to bribe my way out of this one. You're my ticket to freedom." He stabs a dirty finger in Kurt's direction.

"No." Kurt knows, instinctively, how this will go. A new city, a new cage. He can't take it any longer. He finds a strength he did not even know he possessed, straightening. "You don't own me anymore. I'm finished."

"That's not your decision," Meister says sharply, rising to his feet. "Those circus freaks sold you to me without batting an eye. You're _mine_ and you'll do as I tell you." Outside, there is shouting. The smell of smoke begins to fill the air.

"Tell me where they are!" Kurt says again, bristling. He feels angry -- angrier than he has ever been, vision growing white around the edges. He lashes out without thinking, knocking Meister to the ground and putting his foot on the man's chest to pin him. Hundreds of fights he had not wanted flicker in his brain. The crowd thought he was a monster. Maybe they were right.

Meister begins to laugh, chest heaving beneath Kurt's weight. "You mutants really are as stupid as you are ugly," he tells Kurt at last, spittle clinging to his lips. "You think I know where your freak parents are?"

No, it's not possible. He's lying. " _You promised!_ " Kurt shouts. The owner just laughs and laughs. Why would he do this? He didn't know Kurt. Why would he be so cruel? This hell had been for nothing. Two years he suffered here, the reasons were just air and smoke. It's not true, he must know, he _must._ "Tell me or I will kill you." Unlike this man, Kurt does not lie. He raises his tail. He knows exactly where the man's heart is, how easy it would be to pierce it through and stop it forever.

"Have you ever heard the saying: to make a deal with the devil?" the man asks. "You may look a demon, but you are nothing but a scared, petulant child. Kill me if you like, but you'll still be just as alone as you were when I found you."

"He's not alone," it's Raven's voice, but not her body. A woman with skin just as blue as Kurt's walks through the door, her bare feet making no noise against the concrete floor.

Kurt's eyes widen. "You're --"

"Like you," she finishes smoothly. "Sorry for the deception. It's assholes like him that made me think I needed to hide. Well, I'm done with it." She smiles like a knife, her blue lips parting into the startling whiteness of her teeth. "Mutant and proud." She puts a steadying hand on his shoulder. "Leave him. He's not worth it."

Kurt hesitates. "He _lied_ ," he says fiercely, bearing his fangs.

Raven's yellow eyes meet his, some unreadable sadness within their depths. "I know." She glances down at the man at their feet. "But take it from me, there are some choices that you can't come back from."

He takes a steadying breath. She's right, of course. One sin does not justify another. He feels ashamed of himself for even thinking it should. He lets the man go, ears drooping. He hopes his outburst did not make Raven think less of him. Right now, she is the only friend he has.

Meister struggles to his feet. "I know you," he says, staring at Raven contemplatively before spitting on her. "Some hero."

Raven moves with the grace of a dancer, her leg swinging up to pin Meister against the concrete wall. He gasps for breath, fingers scrabbling against her ankle, but it's no use. His eyes bulge and his face grows purple. Raven regards him calmly before letting go. His body slumps forward into an awkward heap.

"Did you kill him?" Kurt asks.

"No, but he's gonna wake up with a _really_ crappy headache," Raven responds with a shrug. She takes his hand. Her skin looks like glittering blue scales, but it's smooth to the touch. She's lovely. "People will always think the worst of you. Don't give ‘em a reason to assume they're right."

Kurt stares down at the crumpled body of the man who had dictated his boundaries for nearly two years of his life. "Where will I go now?" he asks. He's often dreamed of freedom. He's never thought about what he would do if he actually had it.

"You'll come with me," Raven tells him with admirable certainty. She grins. "Ever thought about visiting the States?"

 

* * *

 

To be perfectly honest, Charles had never expected Erik to stay this long. He'd _hoped_ , of course, but he'd since abandoned the childish notion that he could change the world simply through _wishing_ it better. The moment Erik arrived, Charles had been slowly preparing himself to bear the brunt of his inevitable departure. Charles joked that as a telepath it was very difficult to surprise him. Yet, somehow Erik never failed to do just that.

(Once, they had both dreamed of a better world. A safe haven for their people. They had taken very different paths and yet, somehow, ended up here. That _has_ to mean something, though admittedly, Charles is not sure what.)

He supposes that, in recent years, he allowed himself to be lulled into a kind of complacency, secure that happiness -- that _peace_ \-- would be enough. He's made the same mistake before. Charles can only hope the fallout will be less devastating this time around.

He watches Erik over their evening chess match, paying far more attention to the man across from him than to the pieces and as a consequence, he's losing rather badly. Erik raises a questioning eyebrow as he takes Charles' queen, but otherwise, keeps his thoughts to himself. It's damnably frustrating and Erik knows it. Of course, Charles doesn't need to be invited in, but the idea of pushing past Erik's roughly constructed mental barriers leaves an acidic taste in Charles' mouth and he dismisses the idea as quickly as it occurs to him. Still, he hadn't realized how dependent he had become on the metallic curl of Erik's thoughts, steely and precise yet now as startlingly familiar as his own. The yawning emptiness that stretches between them seems to Charles like being deafened. The worst kind of isolation.

"Something on your mind, Charles?" Erik asks. He moves his bishop with a gesture. They can both see that in three moves, Charles will be checkmated. He makes a valiant feint anyway before reluctantly conceding defeat.

 _You_ , Charles thinks. He sighs and sits back in his chair. "Apologies. I think may be more tired than I realized."

"In that case," Erik begins, resetting the board with a wave of his hand. "We should probably get you to bed." He gazes pointedly at Charles. A low ember of heat rises from Erik's mind, setting off sparks in his own.

 _Oh_. Well, then.

"I wasn't sure you --" Charles begins as they reach their (well, nominally Charles') bedroom. Their private lives are nobody's business but their own and while Erik keeps up the pretence of independence with a room of his own, he rarely spends the night there. Erik leans down and kisses the doubt from Charles' lips in a motion that is surprisingly tender.

"I'm not one of your strays," he points out.

"I know,” Charles responds automatically. But does he? Sometimes, he's not so sure. Since the moment Charles had first felt Erik's mind, shining like a beacon in the water, he's been so hopelessly drawn to him. Even when Charles spent a decade convincing himself that it would have been better to never have met Erik at all. "Damn it, I just want to _help_ you."

"My friend," Erik murmurs, callused thumb tracing Charles' cheekbone, his voice low and undeniably fond. "You already have."

When Erik kisses him again, Charles is reminded of diving headfirst into dark water. Loving Erik has always been a leap of faith -- in a life of stupid, arrogant decisions, perhaps the most dangerous one he's ever made -- yet Charles knows, instinctively, despite all the pain and remorse, he'd do it all again in a heartbeat. (He can't change the past. However, the future is another matter entirely.)

There's a strange urgency here. He grasps at Erik's shoulders like a man drowning, arching into his touch as Erik's lips press against the length of Charles' throat. Erik lifts him from his chair with an ease that would have embarrassed Charles if he weren't so eminently distracted at present. He slips his hands beneath Erik's black turtleneck as they collapse against the surface of the bed, greedy for warmth. Erik kisses him fiercely, possessively, grinding their hips together and making Charles gasp. It's over far too quickly, a scrabble for purchase as clothing is discarded and telling Charles more than words ever could. Erik seems to map every inch of skin with teeth and tongue, his mind a tangled mess of affection, desire and pure sensation, sparking against Charles' own like tiny jolts of electricity. After days of silence, it feels absolutely _glorious_.

"You're leaving, aren't you?" Charles asks afterwards as they lie tangled together in the dark. He feels Erik's arms tighten around him response -- it's all the confirmation he needs.

Charles has already found more happiness than he could have expected. It seems greedy to ask for more. (This is a sanctuary, not a prison.)

Charles does not ask him to stay.

 _You'll always be welcome here, my friend._ He slides the thought into Erik's mind as easily as breathing, eyes slipping closed as Erik leans forward and kisses the back of his neck.

 

* * *

 

Early morning in the Souq al'Goma'a smells of spices, gasoline and sweat, the familiar odours of the city all blended together to create something unique and new. Ororo picks her way through the crowd, moving like a fish upstream and finds Masudi watching a Hawy. The magician spits fire in the air as Ororo approaches. The children around him jump and cry delightedly. Ororo kicks Masudi's heel, startling him. " _Hala_ ," she snaps. “Work first then you can laze about." He rolls his eyes but does as she asks, rushing toward a group of men gathered nearby and tugging out their most recent bag of loot. Masudi was a lout, but he could talk even a wise man out of his last coin. Satisfied, Ororo disappears back into the crowd.

Everyone was in high spirits today despite the earthquake that had shaken the city mere days before. Old Cairo and Bulaq had been hard hit, but the rubble had been cleared and Ororo supposed that life must go on. She stops to look at a platter of Zainab fingers and feels her stomach rumble. No time for that now. She tears herself away and finds a foreigner couple snapping pictures. They couldn't make a clearer target of themselves if they had painted 'rob me' on their backs. Ororo rolls her eyes and silently sweeps behind them, relieving the man from the burden of his wallet. She slips around the corner, ripping out the cash (American dollars) and tossing the rest aside. She could make just as much with the IDs, maybe more, but too many questions would be asked. The fewer people who know her in Cairo, the better. She has seen the risk her kind takes by making themselves too visible.

She continues through the market until her pockets are heavy -- two watches, a bracelet, cash and coins. A good day's work. She is just about to slip down an alleyway when a man catches her by the arm, pulling hard. "That's him!" The foreigner shouts in English at the policeman who holds her. "That's the boy that robbed me!" Ororo scowls. That son of a dog.

"Empty your pockets," the policeman tells her. She scowls at him. Well, nothing for it. She tilts her head, eyes rolling back until they are pure white. The wind whips through the narrow passageway, sending the goods scattering. The foreigner yelps as he loses his hat. The policeman lets go of her as an awning blows loose, smacking him squarely in the face. Ororo doesn't wait to watch the rest of the aftermath, darting away as fast as her legs can carry her. "Stop him!" The policeman yells. Ororo ducks beneath grasping hands, heart pounding. There are too many people. Too much noise. She slips through the narrow gap between two stalls as someone calls behind her.

"He went this way!"

Ororo skids to a stop as a man stands in her way. Or at least, she thinks it's a man. He's wearing a hooded robe, like a character in a movie, but beneath its shadow, she can see that his skin is blue. "I know you," he says.

"Good for you," she spits out, moving to shove past him. But it's too late. Two men tumble out into alleyway behind her as the policeman appears, red-faced and out of breath. Damn, she's boxed in.

"Enough," the blue man says as they approach.

"Do you know this boy?" the policeman asks.

"She's no boy," the strange man responds, black eyes scanning her with obvious interest. "Who rules this world?"

"What?" the policeman advances toward her. Ororo unthinkingly backs into the protective grasp of the stranger. "If you're not her family, I suggest you leave."

"I am more than her family," the man replies. He lays a heavy hand upon her shoulder, keeping her in place. Ororo glances up as he pulls back his hood. Black eyes are set deep within his skull, a helmet of steel glinting in the sunlight above his scarred brow. Ororo has never seen anything like him. She begins to wonder if she picked the correct ally. "I am her god." The three men have the good sense to exchange worried glances. One begins to slowly back away. "You can sense it, can't you? You know who I am.”

The blue mutant smiles. He gestures toward them. The policeman lets out a yell as he is sucked into a nearby wall. Ororo can see the pure panic in his expression just before he disappears. The other two sink into the street as if it were quicksand, their faces turned upward to keep themselves from choking upon stone. It's not enough. When everything solidifies, there is nothing more than a hand sticking up from the street below her, fingers still twitching. Ororo tears out of the strange man's grasp. "What were you thinking?!" she asks shrilly.  "This is Cairo. You can't just go around killing people!"

The man stares at her, tilting his head like a questioning dog. "Tell me, my child, why do you allow these men to enslave you?"

"I'm no one's slave," Ororo snaps back, bristling. She’s been alone on these streets for as long as she can remember and answers to no one but herself.

The man steps toward her. "I dreamt of your face," he says. He holds out his hand, hovering just inches from her. Ororo feels a strange electricity in the air, like a brewing storm. It makes the hair on her arms stand on end. His eyes seem to bore into her very core. ( _"Mama!" Her mother screams as the bad men drag her away, kicking and struggling against them. Ororo stands still, frozen in fear, as thunderclouds gather over her head._ ) Ororo gasps as he wrenches the memory from her, his fingers cold and unkind. _How much you have suffered_ , his voice seems to echo within her skull. Stars burst behind her eyelids. _Your enemies shall kneel before you, my goddess._

She collapses to her knees before him, her whole body tingling with newfound power. She can feel the heat in the air, the clouds rolling overhead, and smell the rain as a storm gathers a thousand miles away. "This world has no time for gods," she says, thinking of her homeland and the sound of her mother’s cries.

"Not yet," he assures her. "But it will."


	3. Pestilence

Betsy follows her mark to an underground club in _Prenzlauer Berg_ , feeling a little like Alice slipping down the rabbit hole. The thumping bass hits her as soon as the steel factory door slides open and it's only thanks to the building's relative seclusion that everyone in a five-mile radius wasn't aware that this little illegal party was going on. A man wearing black lipstick and a Makarov stuck down the back of his leather pants pats her down at the entrance. Betsy has never had a reason to carry a weapon. She has much more subtle ways to defend herself. "I haven't seen you here before," he says gruffly. Betsy raises an eyebrow. So this place was invitation only. Just her luck. Of course, one bouncer with a gun was hardly a deterrent but Caliban was feeling twitchy and probably wouldn't appreciate her causing a scene.

"She's with me," a woman says smoothly, stepping into the entryway and placing a steadying hand on the bouncer's arm. Betsy frowns -- clearly, she's been made. Either Betsy was getting rusty or this woman was more than she seemed. The bouncer glances between the two of them before shrugging his shoulders, letting Betsy slip past. Inside was barely more than a glorified bunker, with some rusting machinery lying here and there like monuments to an age of industry gone by. A man with a shaved head and a tattoo across his throat is selling bottles of Jack Daniels and blue jeans for an exorbitant price in the corner, while young people with too many piercings milled about and danced to bad euro trash.

Betsy hadn't realized Japanese businesswomen frequented places like this.

The woman slips her arm into Betsy's companionably, leading her toward the makeshift bar. "I was wondering when you would finally show your face," she surveys Betsy with sharp, intelligent eyes. She holds up a hand to get the bartender's attention and orders them both a vodka, neat. Her nails are long, sharp and dangerous, painted in dark red polish, like dried blood.

"You're not an easy woman to meet," Betsy admits. She'd been following her for most of the day, waiting for an opening. Between meetings with German officials and her bodyguards following her everywhere else, Betsy had been forced to keep her head down.

The woman pays for their vodkas. "Did my brother send you here to kill me?" she asks suddenly. Betsy must look taken aback because she throws her head back and laughs. "Good. Your throat is far too pretty to slit."

Betsy feels like this conversation is starting to get away from her. She takes her vodka and throws it back in one gulp. It burns the whole way down, but at least it centres her. "My boss, Caliban, has a proposition for you."

The woman tilts her head, taking a sip of her drink. Her red lipstick leaves a smudge on the rim of her glass. "Let me guess," she muses, clicking the tips of her nails thoughtfully against the surface of the bar, "he wants something."

"Everyone always does," Betsy responds bluntly. She nods at the bartender and orders another vodka. "It's simple enough. Just an inside track on the deal Oyama Heavy Industries is making with the East German government."

"And in return?"

"Information. There isn't a mutant within twenty miles that Caliban doesn't know about." Betsy shrugs her shoulders.  "People like us ought to stick together." She surveys the woman in front of her, wondering about what her power could be. Caliban hadn't given her much beyond a picture and a name -- three years she’s worked for that scum and he still doesn’t trust her. To his credit, it shows admirable survival instincts.

The woman tosses back her slick black ponytail, watching Betsy with equal attention. "You're American, aren't you?"

"What gave it away?" Betsy asks, honestly curious. It's been three years since she first came to Berlin and her German was fluent.

"Your accent," the woman tells her. "How did you end up working for Caliban?"

"I was looking for someone," Betsy doesn't talk about her past. Ever. It's the one rule she’ll never break.

The woman tilts her head curiously, still drumming an unfamiliar beat with her fingertips. "And now?"

Betsy shrugs, blocking out the memories which threaten to rise unbidden. "I found him."

The woman looks a little taken aback -- clearly, she's used to getting her way. Then she throws her head back and laughs. Betsy likes the sound. "You know, usually when people want a favour from me, they talk a whole lot more."

Maybe it's the vodka currently spreading a warm glow in the pit of her stomach, making her limbs feel heavy and slow, or maybe it's the terrible music thumping away in the background, the anonymity of the crowd. Either way, she decides to do something brave but reckless. Betsy reaches out, slipping her hand along the length of the other woman's waist, coming to rest at her hip. "I don't need words to be persuasive," she murmurs, stepping in close enough for their breath to mingle. The woman tilts her head up, her dark eyes growing very wide, hypnotic in the low light beneath the shield of her mascara-coated lashes.

The woman runs her hand along the length of Betsy's bare arm like an invitation. "Prove it." She takes Betsy's hand, leading her from the bar and further into the bowels of the club, away from the dancers and the noise. Like Alice, Betsy feels her curiosity outweigh her judgement — she has no choice but to follow. As soon as they're out of sight, the woman presses Betsy against a wall and kisses her with a strength that belies her thin frame, teeth scraping across her lower lip. Betsy gasps, spinning the woman around and running her hands down the soft curves of her body, her lean waist and the sharp bones of her hips. She kisses her neck and yanks away her black suit jacket to bite her shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark. The woman gasps, reaching back to tug her closer with wordless encouragement. Betsy smiles, lapping the mark her teeth had left, red and angry against the impossible whiteness of the woman's skin. She slips her hands around her waist, holding her steady, and then down the front of her pants. The woman whines, twisting in her grasp, and Betsy plasters the lengths of their bodies together and chases the sensation down with her.

"Tell Caliban I'll consider his offer," the woman says when they finish, leaning against the concrete wall. She looks thoroughly ravished, lipstick smudged and buttons missing from her shirt, exposing flashes of white skin underneath. Betsy finds that she appreciates the view. She snaps open her purse, pulling out a pen and a scrap of paper.  "I'll be in Berlin for another week -- two, even, if negotiations don't go as planned," she explains as she scribbles down something before passing it into Betsy's hands. "That's my hotel." Betsy knows the place. It's two blocks away from the _Palast der Republik._ Whatever deal she's working on, it's important enough to warrant a dignitary's lodging. No wonder Caliban was so insistent.

Betsy has only had one person in her life she completely trusted and he was lost to her forever. What lovers she takes are fleeting, barely more than one night stands, and by now she has convinced herself that she prefers it this way. Caring for someone was messy and excruciating, the kind of pain she couldn't just walk away from. But the dark eyes staring at her border upon a challenge and Betsy finds she has a hard time making excuses. She pockets the address, stepping forward and reeling the other woman in, warm and surprisingly pliable beneath her fingertips as she kisses her.

 

* * *

 

"It smells pretty old here. Is this a school or a museum?" Scott complains, after way too many hours spent in the passenger seat of Alex's Corvette -- seriously, it had leather seats and Scott is vaguely wondering whether Alex stole it from somewhere because _no way_ would a teacher be able to afford a car that nice. Still, Scott had thought road trips were boring before he lost his eyesight. He'd spent most of it trying to sleep -- at least that put an end to Alex's awkward was hell attempts at conversation, but he was too on edge to get anything resembling real rest.

Alex doesn't deign to respond, though he holds onto his arm tightly, helping Scott over an unexpected step before leading him into a room beyond. It's smaller than where they entered -- or at least, Scott thinks so, by the way the voices sound. His stomach clenches. Is this really what it's come to? Waltzing through his whole life with his eyes shut?  

"... _to break forth bloodily, then the past must be obliterated and a new start made. Let us now start fresh without remembrance, rather than live forward and backward at the same time_ ," a man with an English accent says. "Now, what are the aggrieve things that the author meant when he wrote all that? He --"  He stops suddenly, voice trailing off into nothingness. He recovers quickly. "That's going to be your assignment for tomorrow. Top marks, everyone. Class dismissed." There's the scraping of chairs, some laughter and murmured voices. Shapeless figures push past Scott as they all head toward the doorway. Alex tugs at Scott's sleeve, edging him out of the way. When everything has fallen quiet, the man speaks again. "Good to see you, Alex. I presume this is him?"

"Yeah, this is my brother Scott." It sounds weird to hear. Scott doesn't remember the first time he found out he had an older brother, but Alex was hardly an ordinary sibling. He's been a mythical figure in Scott's life from the time he could talk, but all in all, most of the time Scott would have preferred to be an only child. At least then, he wouldn't have the disappointment. "Scott, this is the Professor."

Scott holds out his hand and the man takes it. His grip is firm and polite. "I can see the resemblance," the man says at last.

Scott’s face twists in disbelief. Most people who have seen him and brother together don't even realize they're related — it’s more than just the age difference. "People usually say I take after my mom."

"Not in body, perhaps, but in mind," the Professor remarks gently, seemingly able to tell he's struck a nerve. "But where are my manners? Welcome, Scott, to the school for the gifted."

"Yeah, no offence Prof but it doesn't really feel like a gift," Scott says wryly, gesturing at the bandages wrapped tightly across his eyes.

"It never does, not at first." The Professor shifts and Scott can hear the floorboards creak as he moves forward. Alex takes his arm and leads him as they follow. Voices echo around them as they pass through the entryway and out a side door.  "The first step in understanding one's power is learning the extent of it. Only then can we begin the process of teaching you how to control it." The sun is warm against Scott's face despite the chill in the air. The gravel walkway crunches beneath their feet. "Why don't you take your bandages off and we can have a look at what we're dealing with here. Alex, would you line him up? There we go." Scott can feel his brother's hands cautiously peeling the bandages away from his face. Scott keeps his eyes firmly shut as Alex angles him toward a target he can't see. He hopes very much this is a joke because -- yeah, _not_ gonna happen. Did Alex not tell this guy what went down the last time Scott had his eyes open?

"There's a target just across the water. When you open your eyes, try and hit that," the man prompts. Scott stiffens. All he can see is his father's face as he threw himself to the ground, the sound of Kristie's screams echoing in his ears. "It's alright, Scott, there's nothing to be afraid of." The Professor's voice is sympathetic but firm. Clearly, he's not going to take no for an answer. Well, his funeral. Scott opens his eyes. A solid red beam whips across the pond, decimating the straw target and raking through the trunk of a towering oak tree behind it. Scott quickly squeezes his eyes shut again though he can hear the creaking of branches as the tree slowly topples over onto the grass.

"My grandfather planted that tree when he was five years old," the Professor murmurs after a moment of shocked silence. "I used to swing from the branches myself when I was young."

"Guess that means I'm expelled," Scott says, trying very hard not to sound pleased with himself. Time to go home then. Oh well, no one can say he didn't try.

"On the contrary, welcome aboard," the Professor says brightly. "Here, try these." He presses something smooth and cool into Scott's open palm. Scott runs his fingers across the surface and finds that they're glasses. "I had Hank mock up a prototype after you left, Alex." Scott lifts them to his face. They fit pretty well. He cautiously peaks one eye open and is surprised to find that nothing explodes. "They may at least allow you to see the world without burning it down around you." Scott takes in his surroundings. They're standing on a massive green lawn with the smouldering wreckage of the tree across the smooth water of a wide pond. The house behind him towers like a mini castle complete with turrets and Christ -- Scott had been picturing some kind of military academy, not a fancy private school. "There, much better," the Professor remarks with a smile, seeing some of the wonder in Scott's expression. He looks down at the man to find he's a lot younger than Scott had been expecting, with floppy brown hair and a tweed jacket that makes him look like some kind of Oxford don. He stiffens suddenly, pressing his fingertips to his temple. "Ah -- Alex, do you mind getting your brother settled in? I'm afraid I'm needed elsewhere." The Professor gives Scott one last smile before he wheels off across the grass.

Scott watches him go. He has no idea what just happened. Alex claps a friendly hand on his shoulder. "Don't worry, he's always like that. You'll get used to it."

_Not bad._ Scott hears a girl's voice, close enough that it sounded like she was standing right next to him -- or closer than that, like she was somehow in his head, but that's crazy. He spins around but there's no one in his immediate proximity.

"What?" Scott says. He sees a pretty redhead standing just a few feet away from him, her arms folded across her chest. "Did you just say something?" he asks her. He can feel Alex looking at him like he's absolutely nuts.

"Yes," the girl tells him with a smile, taking a few steps forward. "And no," she corrects herself, brow furrowing. "I'm a telepath."

Like this day couldn't get any stranger. Scott makes a face. "Sure, that's normal." Why not? He can shoot lasers out of his eyes and he's going to be living in a castle with some dude who can communicate with people no one can see and his brother's actually spent a full day not being an asshole, so by this point, everything seems pretty plausible. "Just... from now on, stay out of my head, okay?"

"Don't worry, Scott. There's not much to see." Her blue eyes light up mischievously and hey, he's pretty sure that's meant to be an insult. She turns to walk away and Scott is glad he's got his eyesight back because he appreciates the view.

"I never told you my name," Scott calls after her.

She pauses mid-stride. "No, you didn't," she says without turning around.

"You gonna tell me yours?" Scott asks. The girl just shakes her head, but Scott can see that she's laughing. He takes that as a good sign. "Uh... I'll see you around, I guess?" He just stands there for a second, feeling a little awestruck. Were all mutant girls like this? “ _Woah._ ” Maybe this school wouldn't be so bad after all.

Alex shakes his head with a grin. "Pick your jaw up from the floor before someone trips on it," he tells him. "Welcome to freak school, Scottie."

 

* * *

 

For all that he complained back then, Hank finds that he sort of misses his X-men days. Not that he longs for the impending doom, of course, but the thrill of near misses and last minute saves wasn’t easily left behind. Of course, it's nice being able to go a week without being beat up or shot at or impaled (he can thank Erik's diabolical brain for that last one) but as much as Hank used to long for ordinary life, actually having one is surprisingly... well, _dull_ in comparison. So he isn’t as shocked as he should be to find himself hanging up the phone and heading into the cockpit of the Blackbird, switching on her thrusters. It's been a while, but no one can handle the old girl like him. She hums as the pavement of the basketball court slides apart like waves of the Red Sea. He smiles to himself -- it feels a little like taking a joyride in dad's new BMW.

He calls his secretary while on route, rescheduling his meetings for the day, then simply sits back to enjoy the ride. Landing an unauthorized plane in East Germany sounds just like the stupid shit they used to get up to -- not that different from showing up in Cuba during the missile crisis, though thank god there was no Sebastian Shaw waiting for him this time. He switches on the cloaking device just off the border and lands in a bombed-out factory on the outskirts of the city, near the coordinates Raven provided. He finds her standing on the cracked pavement, shielding her eyes from the blast of the Blackbird’s engine.

"Well, this is a surprise," she says, her mouth quirking up into a smile as he walks down the gangway. "When I called for an extraction, I didn't mean fly the damn plane yourself, y'know."

"I needed a holiday," Hank tells her with a shrug. He looks at their surroundings, taking in the overgrown rubble and graffiti. It reminds Hank of the end of the world. "Though, you could've picked a better location."

Raven grins, giving him an obvious once-over. "You look... different."

Hank reaches up to self-consciously brush the lapel of his jacket. Oh yeah, he'd nearly forgotten how long it's been since he last saw her. "Well, I heard someone say that we should be proud of who we are," he says, "Figured it was time to follow her advice." He remembers back when he could barely look at his own reflection -- the first time he stepped out in front of a camera without his familiar disguise, well, nervous doesn't even begin to cover it. But the only way things change is when brave people decide to take a stand. He doesn't know if it'll work, but if he can keep at least one mutant kid from hating his own skin, it'll be worth it. Maybe some of Charles' seemingly endless optimism was rubbing off on him.

"Sounds like a smart lady."

Before Hank can respond, a figure appears out of thin air. Literally. Okay, he knew the kid was a mutant, but he definitely wasn't expecting that. Raven seems completely unfazed so Hank does his best to mirror her disinterest. "Hello," the blue-skinned teenager says with an awkward little wave. "I'm Kurt." He grins, revealing a pair of pointed fangs. Hank feels a little taken aback because wow, he knows who Kurt is but he hadn't expected him to look so much like -- "You're blue," Kurt points out, quickly derailing Hank's current train of thought. "Like me!"

Honestly, after several months on the campaign trail, this isn't the strangest reaction to his appearance he's gotten. He sticks out his hand. "I'm Hank McCoy," he says.

Kurt looks down at his hairy blue paw before shaking it enthusiastically. "Is that your plane?" he asks excitedly.

"In a manner of speaking," Hank responds. "Hop aboard." Kurt doesn't need to be asked twice. He blinks out of view in a puff of blue smoke. Hank can hear his exclamation of surprise echoing from inside the bowels of the plane. Well, first-time fliers were always an experience. Raven rolls her eyes but she's smiling as she mounts the ramp. Hank heads to the cockpit. "You might want to strap yourself down. Take off can be a little rocky," he instructs. After checking on Kurt, Raven slips into the co-pilot's seat like she belongs there. Something in Hank's chest swells. "I missed you," he tells her. The way they'd left things, well, he understood why she had to go and he'd tried his best to be supportive but whatever this was between them felt like it was over before it had even begun. He flicks on the cloak and the thrusters.

Raven looks at him, expression unreadable. "I know," she says at last.

"Are you seriously going pull that Han Solo shit with me?" Hank asks, raising his eyebrows.

Raven laughs, shaking her head. "Fine, okay, I missed you too."

The Blackbird rises into the air with a wobble that makes him think he should probably check the vertical stabilizers when they get back. "So Kurt," Hank begins after he's plugged in the coordinates for Westchester. "What kind of distance can you cover?"

"Uh, I'm not sure. As far as I can see. Or if I've been there before," Kurt calls back. "How does the plane stay in the air?"

"Don't get him started, Kurt!" Raven inserts herself quickly as Hank opens his mouth. "Honestly, if you're gonna talk science the whole way, I'll start wishing I flew commercial.”

“Does the kid even have a passport?” Hank asks.

“Nope.” Raven grins. “But when has a little thing like that ever stopped me?”

She has a point. Hank leans forward to adjust the instruments, shaking his head. “This is _so_ illegal,” he mutters beneath his breath. After a moment of comfortable silence, Hank glances over at her. “So, I’m guessing you haven’t told him.”

Raven’s entire demeanour shifts in an instant. She stiffens in her seat, eyes darting to glance over her shoulder. It’s all the answer Hank needs. “Jesus,” Hank sighs, running a hand back through his hair. “Well, that significantly complicates matters.”

“Do you wanna know where I found him, Hank?” Raven snaps, struggling to keep her voice low. “In an electrified cage where the humans made mutants _fight_ each other for _sport_.” Hank frowns. As family reunions go, that’s definitely one of the shittier ones. He can’t imagine how Raven must be feeling right now. He glances over at her and considers reaching out and comforting her, but she’s just sitting there impossibly still, staring out of the window and Hank chickens out. “No matter what we do, we’re still just animals to them.” For a second, she sounds just like Erik. It doesn’t suit her.

“You did what you thought was right,” Hank tells her gently. “He can’t hold that against you.”

“I would,” Raven says with an iron-willed certainty, her lips twisting. “Believe me, there’s some things you just can’t fix.” Things have always been complicated between them. They’d both wronged each other in a hundred different ways. Maybe Raven is right and there’s no coming back from that. But right now, Hank honestly doesn’t care. He reaches out and takes her hand, half-expecting her to pull away. She doesn’t. Raven glances up, startled, but then she tangles their fingers together, flashing him a grateful smile. Hank looks down at her scaled palm clutched within his hairy blue one and thinks maybe fixing old mistakes was overrated. The real challenge was learning to live with them.

 

* * *

 

He wakes in a sterile hospital room. For a brief second of inertia, he has no idea how he got here, but then reality slots back into place. Pain hits him with a dreadful immediacy. His back feels like it’s on fire and -- _oh god_ , Warren knows exactly why. It’s all he can do to keep himself from screaming with the sudden realization. His wings are gone.

(He was eleven when his life changed forever. He’d woken to a bed damp with his own blood and panicked, tugging at his floor length mirror and turning around. The strange lumps on his shoulder blades hadn’t really been lumps at all. The wings are tinged pink with blood, feathers still damp and clumped together, but they move as Warren gasps for breath, carefully unfurling. He reaches behind himself awkwardly, grabbing the tips and pulling -- this has to be a joke, some kind of stupid prank, because it’s not _possible_ \-- but he stops almost immediately, wincing in pain. He felt that.

He sneaks downstairs, glad that it’s still early enough that neither his father nor the housekeeper was awake yet. He grabs the biggest knife he can carry from the kitchen. It’ll be easy, Warren tells himself, heart beating so hard in his chest that he’s surprised he doesn’t wake the whole house with the noise. One cut and it’ll be like it never happened at all.

When his father finally finds him, he’s sitting on the bathroom floor, his hands red and slick with blood. His one wing hangs limp and broken behind him. His father snatches the knife from his grasp and grabs him by the shoulders, shaking him. “What are you doing!?” he shouts. Then he sees them. His face twists with a realization that isn’t quite surprise. “Oh my God,” he breathes.

“I couldn’t do it,” Warren admits with a hiccuping sob. “I’m sorry.”)

He’s wanted this for as long as he could remember. He should be happy. But instead, there’s nothing but a gnawing emptiness inside of him as he reaches back to touch the empty space where a part of him used to be.

“Ah, you’re awake,” a woman wearing pink patterned scrubs walks in with a clipboard in hand. She looks him over with a perfunctory nod. “How are you feeling?”

Warren isn’t sure how to answer that in way that’s not steeped in self-pity. ‘Like I’m dying’ seems a little melodramatic and ‘awful’ is somewhat lacking in terms of descriptors. So instead he just shakes his head. The nurse smiles sympathetically. “The first day after surgery is always the worst,” she tells him. “I’m just gonna change your bandages now, okay?” She sets down the clipboard, opening up a package of gauze and cutting strips of tape before washing her hands and slipping on a pair of medical gloves. She gently peels away the bandages. Warren can’t see the carnage, but it smells terrible, a sterile, medical scent that fails to mask the blood. He winces as she pats the incisions clean. “Looking good,” she remarks conversationally. “You should heal up nicely.”

“Is my father here?” Warren asks. The words are more difficult to get out than they should be. His mouth feels like it’s full of cotton.

“He came by as soon as you were out of surgery,” the woman tells him. “But he said he had a meeting. He’ll be here later tonight.”

Warren’s heart sinks. He doesn’t know what he was expecting. The nurse finishes up with practised ease, removing her gloves and tossing them into the trash. She washes her hands and then fills a plastic cup full of water and carefully places a straw between his lips. Warren tries to sit up but finds that he can’t. He takes a sip. It feels like swallowing glass. “Try to keep drinking,” the woman instructs, placing the cup beside his bed. “Pretty soon you’ll be as good as new.”

She means it as a comfort. Warren does his best to swallow back the tears which rise unbidden, feeling like he’s mourning something without being certain what it is he’s lost. As soon as the nurse has left the room, he lets out a sob, curling in tightly on himself and pressing his damp face into the pillow to muffle the noise.

He’s spent six years of his life in a cage. Maybe he grew accustomed to the bars. Now the door is finally open and it’s too late. His wings have been clipped. He’ll never get the chance to fly.

 

* * *

 

By the time Betsy drags herself into work, Caliban is in a truly awful mood. She's never cared for him -- he's a weasel of the worst kind, always looking for an angle to exploit and not much caring who he tramples over to get one. At first, she'd only worked with him out of necessity. Now -- well, there are worst jobs for a mutant in Berlin. Better the devil she knows. There's a bit of apathy too because Betsy feels like she’s been playing the waiting game for years. Caliban is a selfish bastard, but then again, people have described Betsy the same way. Maybe that means they have something in common.

"Where the hell have you been?" Caliban snaps, hanging up the phone and rising to his feet.

Betsy shrugs her shoulders, leaning against the wall and pulling a cigarette out of the pocket of her jacket. "Tailing Oyama, remember? Like you told me to."

Caliban scowls. "Never mind that," he says, waving his hand in the air dismissively. "There was an incident at the Bunker. Some sort of riot. The Stasi have taken Heinrich and it's only a matter of time before he leads them to Caliban."

Betsy isn't particularly broken up about this revelation. Heinrich was scum. There were plenty of people around here who exploited mutants for their own gain, but the fight club he'd organized was something else entirely. He'd paid Caliban well for information and Betsy had handed over her share of desperate runaways but even with her flexible moral code, it had left a bad taste in her mouth. After seeing the way Heinrich kept his _pets_ , well, killing them would've been kinder. Still, she can see why Caliban is feeling edgy. So far, they'd managed to keep their little operation under the radar, but sooner or later, Heinrich will tell the Stasi everything he knows. He won't have a choice.

Betsy lights her cigarette, watching as Caliban shoves a handful of loose papers into a briefcase. "Caliban is not waiting around to get tortured by humans. He's moving across the border. He suggests that if you care about your hide at all, you do the same." There's a sudden crash from the other room. Caliban tenses like an animal caught in a trap. " _Scheisse_. They're here." Betsy takes a drag on her cigarette and heads toward the noise. If it really is the Stasi, well, they're not taking her without a fight, that's for damned sure. She conjures up her blades, arms glowing purple with Psionic energy and opens the door.

A teenage girl with bronze skin and bright white hair is standing there with shards of broken ceramic at her feet. A tall man in a cloak stands behind her, his face turned away as he looks contemplatively at one of the black and white photographs on the wall. "How did you get in here?" Betsy asks, keeping her guard up. They're not Stasi but that doesn't mean they're safe. Caliban has made more than a few enemies in Berlin -- so has Betsy -- and there's something about these two that doesn't sit right. She hasn’t gotten this far in life by trusting people.

The man doesn't even seem to react to her presence but the girl grins. "We let ourselves in," she says with a shrug. Her English is passable but there's an accent that Betsy can't quite place — it's definitely not German.

"We're closed,” Betsy says. Caliban skulks out from behind her, laying a hand on her shoulder.

"Easy now, Psylocke," he tells her in that familiar, wheedling tone he always uses when he senses a chance to turn a profit. "These are unusual circumstances, but Caliban's door is always open to customers. What is it you need?"

"We're looking for someone.” The girl glances over at the man as though seeking confirmation. Betsy notices that his skin is blue. "A mutant."

"Ah, then you have come to the right place," Caliban says with a smile. "Though, such things cost money, little girl. Caliban hopes you and your friend have come prepared."

The man turns, his black eyes boring into Caliban as if only just realizing that he was there. The man's blackened lips twist into a scowl. "You are lost," he announces. His voice is very deep and hollow, like the echo of times forgotten. He reaches out, fingertips hovering just above Caliban's face, who has the good sense to look nervous. "You follow blind leaders. False gods. Systems of the weak."

Caliban's pale eyes widen. He looks imploringly at Betsy. If what he said earlier was true, then she doesn't exactly have a job anymore. Still, in a strange way, she guesses she owes him. She points one of her blades at the blue man's throat. "Alright, that's it," she snaps. "Tell us what you want or get the hell out. No one asked for a sermon."

Caliban laughs, squirming beneath the intensity of the stranger's gaze. "Apologies, sir. She lets her temper get away with her sometimes."

The man looks at her. Betsy feels as though he is peeling back the layers of her flesh and staring into the bloody mess beneath. The blade in her grasp wavers. "I want you, my child," he says, his voice soft and insidious, like a snake weaving its way through the grass. Betsy stares at him. She couldn't look away if she tried. The man raises a hand, running his fingertips along the side of her face. "I feel your righteous anger. This world has tried to break you." Betsy gasps, dropping her arm, the Psionic blades flickering out. She can feel him rooting around inside of her, tugging at memories she thought she had left behind. _("Jamie," she takes his shoulders shaking him. "Look at me." Her brother doesn't react, just stares out of the hospital window. There's something dead behind his eyes. Like he's left a part of himself behind in the jungle. She feels like screaming, like hitting him over and over until he does_ something. _"You promised," she says accusingly, tears rising in her eyes. "You promised you'd be okay." Up until this moment, Jamie was the one person in the world who had never lied to her_.)

The man smiles at her, his teeth remarkably white against the dark blue of his skin. She sees the insignificance of her life in his gaze -- nothing but a cog in some great merciless machine, grinding everyone around her into dust. No different than the men who stole her brother from her. "You are stronger for your pain. But you have yet to reach your full potential," he tells her. The words feel like shards of glass in her chest. _Everyone has sought to control you. But I will set you free._

Betsy collapses onto the ground. Her whole body tingles with the knowledge that something has been changed in her, irrevocably. She has viewed the world with eyes unburdened by her hatred. She knows what must be done.

"Rise, my goddess."

She gets to her feet, glancing at Caliban, who has slowly been edging himself toward the open door. She sees the man who has used her without conscience, as so many other men have done before him. She lashes out with a burst of energy, conjuring a whip which wraps tightly around his throat.

"Leave him," the man instructs, laying a steadying hand upon her shoulder. Caliban's eyes bulge as she tightens her grip, squeezing the life from him. "He is unworthy of your attention."

Psylocke grits her teeth but does as she's asked, shrugging her shoulders dismissively. Caliban is nothing but a symptom of a wider disease. This world must be cleansed in order to heal.

 

* * *

 

People gather outside Philadelphia's ornate, gothic city hall. It's mostly journalists, though there are few interested onlookers as well as the families of the victims, pale-faced and clutching at the handles of their umbrellas like a lifeline. The rain falls steadily making the day colder than it should be for April, though it’s no more than a minor irritant to Erik. He stands across the way, hidden beneath a restaurant awning and waits.

An armoured vehicle rolls up Market street, flanked by two police officers on motorcycles. Sirens flash and the traffic obligingly parts. Erik steps off the sidewalk, walking out into the middle of the road.

"Hey buddy, what the hell do you think you're doing?!" A man calls out from the driver's seat of his idling vehicle.

Erik ignores him, reaching out. The ballistic steel calls out to him like a siren song. He smiles, slow and knifelike. The armoured van launches into the air, twisting. One of the police escorts cries out, falling off his bike as the van narrowly misses him. It falls head first onto the pavement with a sickening crunch. Erik hopes its occupants remembered to hold on. He takes one of the motorcycles, using it to pin its rider to the street before welding it to the pavement. A no parking sign stretches out like cloying fingers and wraps itself around the other, yanking him back and pinning his arms to his sides.  A bystander screams, running up the sidewalk as Erik strides forward with single-minded purpose. The driver of the van sits slumped over the wheel, bleeding heavily from a head wound. The man in the passenger seat, dazed and panicked, struggles to grab his gun. Erik gestures and the butt of the rifle smacks him in the face, knocking him out cold. He circles around and yanks the back doors off the van.

Ink and Toad seem to have used the chaos to their advantage, disabling both of their escorts, who currently lie unconscious against the roof of the vehicle. Ink stands haphazardly, looking a little banged up though no worse for wear otherwise, while Toad is perched upside down, clinging to the steel floor. "Jesus!" Ink exclaims, taking an unsteady step backwards before his eyes focus warily on Erik's face. "Oh, hey man, long time no see." They both step out of the van. Ink takes in his surroundings with a whistle.

Erik snaps their handcuffs, which clink uselessly to their feet.

Ink looks particularly grateful, nursing his reddened wrist. "Magneto this is Toad. Toad, the infamous Magneto." Ink glances back at the other mutant, who doesn't respond, his black goggled eyes staring at Erik expressionlessly. Ink shrugs his shoulders. "Yeah, I thought he was dead too."

A camera's flash goes off, blindingly bright. The press has slowly begun to edge themselves down the street. A cameraman glances up and meets his gaze, looking appropriately terrified. Erik snatches it out of his grasp, crumpling it into a ball with the snap of glass and plastic. He gazes at the crowd of people, video cameras still rolling, and is reminded of standing on the White House lawn, so certain of his own righteous cause. "You dare to judge _us_ ," Erik tells them, raising his voice above the murmured panic. "Your laws are nothing but systems of exploitation. We mutants shall never receive due process when it is the humans who make the rules, who enforce them. Who see us and react only in fear and hatred. Who wish to lock us up away from prying eyes to ease their conscience." He can hear the noise of distant sirens. The doors to the courthouse open, security spilling out. They have overstayed their welcome. "We declare our right to be treated fairly, to be respected as individuals, to have real justice in this world. And we intend to bring these rights into existence through any means at our disposal."

"Uh, not to interrupt but you have an escape plan, right?" Ink says, grabbing Erik's arm and looking hesitantly at the cameras.

Erik grins unpleasantly. "Let them come," he suggests. It's been a long time since he's used to his powers to this extent, but he can feel the magnetic pull of the city, steel and iron beams scraping the sky with metal foundations, struts and supports, rails and iron bellied trains, the endless cars and taxis beyond. He feels as though he could crumble it around him with little more than a thought. He dares anyone to try and stop him.

"Hold your horses, you may be bulletproof but we're definitely not," Ink counters. He gestures at Toad, who nods his head as though to confirm this particular vulnerability.

Erik grits his teeth. Until this point, he's managed not to kill anyone. When bullets start flying, he won't be able to ensure that it stays that way. Erik tells himself that it doesn't matter, that Charles' morals were not his own. He may dream of a perfect world, of peace through pacifism, but Erik knows that despite recent gains, such a vision is hopelessly optimistic at best. He won't allow himself to be constrained by rules Charles himself has never asked him to abide by. But still, something in him hesitates -- and that in itself is dangerous.

He glances at a bronze Oldsmobile idling to their left. He pulls the car toward them, the tires squealing across the wet pavement as it nearly knocks the gathered reporters off their feet. The driver throws herself out of the car with a shriek. Erik slips behind the wheel, flinging the passenger side doors open with a glance. Ink shakes his head but slips in next to him as Toad clambers into the backseat. The sirens are growing closer. Erik puts the car into gear and then floors it.

"Well, nice to see some things don't change," Ink remarks, leaning back in the leather seat. He looks strangely relaxed for someone sitting in a car currently pushing 50 miles per hour down a side street. Toad takes one look at Erik’s expression and then solemnly clicks his seatbelt into place. "You're still one crazy son of a bitch."


End file.
